


only ever pain (until you)

by multitudinous



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Chronic Illness, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, GenderNeutral!Reader, Hallucinations, Hurt Jason Todd, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Sensory Overload, jason deserves to be taken care of, said illness is fibromyalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28880007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multitudinous/pseuds/multitudinous
Summary: It's been a while since this has happened—Jason's been having a good run—but life is always out to get him, and soon enough, he's curled up into a ball of nothing butpain, aching muscle and brittle bone. Luckily, like the last few times, he has you now to help him get through it.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	only ever pain (until you)

**Author's Note:**

> first fic out for mr jason todd! hope you enjoy :)

Jason doesn't know _why_ it happens—maybe it's a side effect of either the Lazarus Pit, or of living in a world that he doesn’t belong in, where he should technically be _dead_ , or perhaps it's just the trauma from the Joker's beating coming back to haunt him—but some days, it's as though all Jason is capable of feeling is pure, unadulterated _pain_.

He knows that it’s going to be one of those days from the minute he wakes up, wincing and turning away as the sun peeks through the window and makes his eyes sting, even though they’re still closed. He tries to roll over onto his stomach, not realising that the sheets are tangled up around his legs, and ends up falling off the bed with a dull thud, knee bashing into the floor.

Shoving the sheets away, Jason pushes himself up into a sitting position, stretching his leg out and noticing the faint redness to his skin, but he doesn’t take much note of it as he rubs at his surprisingly sore knee, preoccupied by the sudden throbbing pain in his head and behind his right eye, a sure sign of an incoming migraine.

Groaning, he stands up, damn near clinging onto the bedside table for support as he picks up his phone up and taps on the screen to check the time. It’s nearly noon, so you must already be at work. Jason usually wakes up on time though for you to kiss him goodbye, and the fact that he didn’t today is just another sign that things are probably going to end up going to shit.

Jason’s legs feel weak as he walks to the bathroom. He swears he can feel each individual fibre in the carpeting, rough against his feet. Jason pushes on and relieves himself before washing his hands and splashing cold water onto his face, nearly collapsing into a heap on the floor, but he manages to catch himself before he cracks his head open on the sink.

”You look like a piece of _shit_ that got turned into roadkill, and are _very_ lucky that Y/N isn’t here right now to witness this,” Jason says to his reflection in the mirror above the sink as he leans forward, noting his bloodshot eyes and the bags underneath them, skin paler than usual.

He blinks hard at the mirror and then stumbles out towards your kitchen, regretting not putting any socks on first as his bare feet come into the contact with the tiled floor, cold and leeching any remaining heat from his body. Jason fills the kettle up with water and switches it on, studying the darkening bruise on his knee as he waits for it to come to a boil.

Surprisingly enough, the bruise is already reddish in colour, almost verging on purple and tender to the touch as Jason prods at it with his fingers like a curious child, hissing at the pain radiating from it. He tries his best to ignore the dull ache as he makes himself a quick cup of jasmine tea, specially bought for him by Alfred, fingers trembling all the while.

Jason has to pick up his mug with both hands, taking a moment to let the warmth of the tea seep through his body, and then makes the mistake of taking a step back towards the bedroom. He vaguely recalls having a conversation with Tim and Damian, a while ago now, about if he would rather walk on heated coals or a trail of Legos. Remembers Damian absentmindedly mentioning that he’d already done the former as part of his training in the League of Assassins.

Remembers chiming in himself and saying that he’d done the same, then having to squirm away from Dick when he’d gotten that oddly sad look on his face as soon as Damian mentioned it—that look that said Jason was going to get a hug whether he liked it or not. Jason had _barely_ escaped by pushing Damian into Dick’s arms instead, and Dick had apparently been appeased by that as he curled around Damian like an octopus, still giving Jason puppy eyes.

This, right now? Taking this _single step?_ It feels infinitely worse than both options _combined_.

Jason grits his teeth and forces himself through walking the few paces to your shared bedroom, feeling like he’s about to collapse onto the floor the whole way. He has to take a break when he reaches the doorway, clinging to the doorframe with one hand, and tries to keep his other hand to stay as still as physically possible so it doesn’t spill, even as the handle of the mug feels bruising against his palm.

Jason takes a moment to breathe in deep, resisting the urge to claw at his own neck and chest as his pulse quickens and his heart beats harder against his ribs, as the insistent buzz under his skin grows even _more_ insistent, like it’s trying to seek his attention over the throb of his migraine, over the ever-growing pain in his knee and his trembling hands and his dry throat and chapped lips and the keen desire to have you by his side.

Jason isn’t even exaggerating when he says it feels like it’s been _years_ when he finally reaches the bed, practically falling down onto it. With shaky hands, he brings the mug to his mouth, breathing in the subtle sweetness through his nose before taking a sip of the tea, regretting it immediately when it feels as though molten lava is being poured down his throat, clogging it up to the point that Jason’s nose burns when he tries to force down the urge to choke.

Instead of being stupid and trying to drink any more of it, Jason decides to set the mug down on the bedside table so he can wait for it to cool down, his hand jerking when he sees something other than tea in it. Jason stares helplessly, frozen in place as liquid spills over the rim of the mug and trickles down its side, leaving a faint stain on it, the colour reminiscent of dried blood. He blinks when his eyes start to water, and the tea is its usual colour again, a rich, golden caramel.

Jason stares for a little while longer and then decides to get back into bed so he can wait, for both his tea and you. Curling up into a ball is easier said than done, especially when he can feel every single hair on his body rubbing against the sheets when he pulls them close to his chest, then yanks the covers over his head like he’s trying to smother the pain as he squeezes his eyes shut.

His last thought before unknowingly succumbing to the darkness of sleep, selfish as it might be, is that though he _hates_ being so reliant upon you, though it makes him feel weak and not so different from a leech, asking for everything from you and giving nothing in return, he wants to hear your voice telling him that he _will_ get through this, and that you’ll be with him every step of the way.

* * *

Jason awakes from his restless slumber to the sound of someone knocking on the bedroom door, even though he remembers leaving it open. He knows it’s you though, because you’re the only one who ever bothers knocking anymore, even if the door is open, in an attempt to give him the space he sometimes needs. He tries his best to focus through the pain and realises that you’re knocking in a pattern, the same pattern you established with each other a while ago to ask if he was okay.

Jason nearly bites through his lip to stop himself from crying out as he reaches an arm out from under the covers to knock on the wood of the bedside table thrice, the nauseatingly coppery taste of blood lingering on his tongue. He wants you to tell him everything is going to be okay, even though he knows it isn’t going to be that way for a while, if only to delude himself into thinking so.

“Jay? Are you having a day?” You call out softly, and the ringing in his ears doesn’t stop him from hearing you shuffle your feet. Jason ignores the sound of his teeth grinding together as he summons the energy to peek out at you, squinting at how you’re stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob with both feet firmly outside of the room. Somewhere deep inside him, past all the parts that scream with pain and hurt and anger, it warms him to see that you’ll still respect his boundaries.

He nods at you, regretting it when his migraine comes back with a vengeance. It feels like someone’s hammering at the inside of his head, trying to break out of it. “You okay with touching?” You whisper, finally stepping into the room.

He isn’t sure. Touching his thumb to his chin makes his skin burst into a flurry of sensation, and Jason only refrains from scratching at his face because he knows that _you_ know he wants to do it, going by the stern look on your face. “Can try, but… not skin,” he rasps out, wincing at the way his voice sounds. It’s hoarse and raspy, like he’s been screaming for hours. He could’ve been, in his sleep.

You come closer, casually tugging a pair of gloves out of your pocket and sliding them on. Other than the fact that they’re very soft, the gloves aren’t anything special. When you first found out about the pain, it had been Jason wearing them so he wouldn’t scratch himself, but both of you quickly found out that the material was far too itchy against his sensitive skin, and now it’s you who wears them so that you can help him without accidentally touching his skin and sending him into a frenzy.

Jason watches you as you step in front of the bedside table and curl your hand around a mug that he hadn’t noticed until then. “Jasmine tea?” You ask him, and Jason holds his shaking hands out to take it, but you move it away and put the mug back down, shaking your head. “It’s gone cold. You must have made it before you went to sleep.”

“I—don’t remember,” Jason murmurs, suddenly feeling very lost. He thought you had made it for him. Your mouth twitches into a small frown as you study his face, and your hand rises like you’re about to touch him, faltering midway before falling back down to your side.

“I’m going to get you some water,” you say, waiting for Jason’s nod before leaving to do just that, and Jason _knows_ you’re coming right back, but he somehow misses you even more now than he did when you were at work. His shoulders are tense until you return to his side with a small glass, half-full of water.

“Do you want me to hold it for you—”

“Can do it myself,” Jason interrupts you, insistent on doing at least _this_ without having to be so dependent on you. But once the glass is in his hands, water keeps sloshing over the sides, his teeth clacking into it because of how much his hands are shaking. Your gloved hands come up to support his, holding the glass steady, and he does his best to shoot you a thankful look as he takes a careful sip. He’s sure it’s lukewarm, but it feels like shards of ice scraping against his throat, almost making Jason choke.

Once the glass is empty, you set it down with a clink and crouch down next to the bed, facing him. “Have you eaten?” You ask, and Jason just about manages to shake his head, feeling sick. Your frown deepens momentarily before smoothing out entirely as you stand up again, taking a few steps back so that you’re not looming over him.

His skin is itchy. He feels dirty. Jason doesn’t realise that he’s scratching until you say his name sternly, startling him when you place a gentle hand on top of his. Your eyes scan over his face, and you must see something on it because you straighten up, a somewhat determined look in your eyes as you slowly peel the covers off him, baring Jason’s body to the cold darkness of the bedroom.

“Bath time,” you tell him, a small smile on your face. Jason shivers violently.

“Dirty? Am I dirty?” He asks, vaguely aware of the fact that he’s slurring his words, focussing more on how hot his face feels. Your smile wavers and it feels like his blood is boiling inside him as you shake your head, muttering something to yourself about him getting worse.

“But—”

Jason looks down at his hands, which only shake even more when he sees crimson pooling in the crooks between his fingers, staining his cuticles red and drying into the lines of his cracked palms. Red drips from his fingertips, staining the sheets beneath him. He doesn’t want to touch you, to dirty you with his red hands.

“They’re _dirty_ ,” Jason says, showing you his hands, and you shake your head again.

“You’re not dirty,” you say out loud this time, looking Jason in the eye. “You’re having a bath because it’ll help with the pain,” you explain to him like he’s a child, but Jason can’t find it in himself to get annoyed. He shivers again, but this time it’s because of the sudden cold he feels, because of the goosebumps rising along the surface of his bare arms as the buzz under his skin _roars_ for his attention.

“I’m not?” Jason asks, still hesitant, and you repeat yourself as your eyes flicker over his face, telling him that he _isn’t_ dirty.

“Come on,” you gently coax him until Jason eventually pulls himself out of the safety of the bed, a whimper escaping from between his clenched teeth when his feet touch the floor and pain shoots through his body. Your eyes are glued to him, concern clearly written all over your face as Jason battles his way to the bathroom and then starts to undress as you fill the bathtub, resisting the urge to scratch as the fabric of his clothes drags uncomfortably over his skin.

He studies his trembling hands as you pour some odd-looking powder into the water, dipping your hand in and swirling it all together until you’re left with a slimy mixture. You turn to him with an expectant look on your face like you’re waiting for him to do something, and then it clicks, and Jason’s nose wrinkles as he presses his lips together in a thin line.

“Sweetheart, you need to actually _get in_ for it to have any effect,” you remind him, a teasing undertone to your voice. Jason pulls a face and steps up to the tub, wincing as the muscles in his legs sprain when he tries to swing his leg over the edge to do as he’s been told. But you come up next to him, holding one of his hands as lightly as you can to support him as he manages to climb into the tub, slowly sinking down until he’s sat down and almost fully submerged.

For a moment, it’s almost too overwhelming for him, and then the continuous sensations of hot and cold and pain and numbness, of all too much and nowhere near enough, they all slowly ease. Jason sinks a little lower into the water, hands shooting out of the water to grip onto the sides of the bathtub so he can ground himself as he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, slowly breathing out through his nose.

Jason isn’t sure if he’s relieved or terrified by how easy it was to get his body to just _shut up_ , but doesn’t ponder on it, revelling instead at how he can now simply _feel_ without hurting so much.

He must zone out for quite some time though because he ends up tuning back in to the sound of your voice, smooth and familiar as you tell him about your day at work. You aren’t holding his hand anymore, but are still sat on the rug next to the bathtub, watching him with sharp eyes.

Once again, Jason is reminded of the fact that you’re too good for him, too good for someone with blood on his hands and vengeance on his mind, for someone who is capable of feeling nothing but anger in his heart. Once again, he wonders why you choose to _stay_ , why you _keep_ choosing him even though everyone else in his life does the opposite.

There’s an odd look on your face when Jason turns to look at you. You don’t say anything, not pushing him, but wait for him to speak in his own time. He’s fiercely reminded of how much he loves you and swallows down the lump in his throat which threatens to choke him.

“They’re red,” he finally croaks out, and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. “My hands are red, and they’re always gonna be red with people’s fucking _blood_ , because that’s all I’m good at. That’s all I can _do_.”

“Jay—” you start, frowning, but he cuts you off with a shake of his head which makes him feel like he’s about to throw up.

His bloody hands shake. “I’m never going to be clean,” Jason whispers, but even that is too loud for his overly sensitive ears. “When people look at Red Hood, at _me_ , that’s all they are ever going to see. Blood on my hands.”

“Jason, baby,” you murmur, and Jason doesn’t think he’s ever heard your voice so soft before. He turns his head to look down when your gloved fingers graze the tips of his, even though it makes him feel like his brain is pounding violently against the inside of his skull.

You’re asking if you can hold his hand, and Jason takes in a deep breath as he slowly uncurls his fingers from the death grip they previously had around the edge of the bathtub, then flips his hand over so his palm is facing upwards.

You don’t cover it with your own like he’s expecting, but manage to slide yours underneath Jason’s so that you’re cradling his hand. He has to fight hard against the instinct to snatch it back.

“You wanna know what I see?” You ask as your eyes fall to his hand, but it isn’t really a question, and if it is, it’s clearly rhetorical. Your gloved fingertip traces over the lines in his palm, and it doesn’t hurt as much as Jason had thought it would. Instead of thousands of tiny needles piercing through the surface of his skin, it just feels like sharp little pinpricks of sensation.

He looks up at you, and you look right back at him with soft eyes and a softer smile. Jason’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat in the same way it always does when you smile at him. “I see strength, and I see kindness, and I see _good_.”

Your eyes lower to look at his hand again. “I see scars and callouses and bruised knuckles, and fingers that haven’t healed right after being broken. I see the hands of a man who has worked hard every single day of his life, who doesn’t _stop_ working even though it hurts sometimes, because he’s just like that.”

Your eyes meet, and Jason has to take in deep breaths after seeing the fierce look in your eyes, even though his chest is painfully tight. “I see hands that disarm bombs and shoot guns and break assholes’ noses. Hands that help and protect and _love_ , so, _so much_.”

Jason exhales shakily through his nose, eyes stinging. He doesn’t _deserve_ this, he _knows_ that. He’s known that he doesn’t deserve you since the moment he met you, since the first time he dared to utter your name with his unworthy tongue, to touch you with his undeserving hands.

But you make him sound like this _wonderful_ person, somebody who actually _deserves_ to have you and love you, and Jason doesn’t know how you can see him like that. He’s killed and tortured and hurt people, both physically and emotionally, he’s not good at _all_ , but he couldn’t bear to lose you if you ever came to the realisation that you’ve been wrong about him all along.

Loving you is the best thing he’s ever done, the greatest choice he’s ever made, and the closest he can get to being good is being good to _you_. If that’s taken away from him, he’s doomed to an eternity of making the wrong choices.

“When I look at you, I see someone who is brave and gentle and strong. _So strong_ ,” you emphasise with the gentlest squeeze to his hand, almost like you think if you put too much pressure on it, his bones will cave in and shatter beneath your touch into dozens of tiny pieces, just like Jason’s heart does whenever you say things like this to him, like you actually _mean_ it.

“I see a man who has been hurt by the world around him so many times, but he’s come out fighting every time.” Jason flinches at that, turning away so he can watch the condensation slowly forming on the tap, a single water droplet threatening to spill from it.

“Jay,” you whisper shakily, and he can hear the swell of emotion in your voice. But Jason knows that you’re not asking him to turn back and face you again, though he feels like he _should_ so he can lean in and kiss any revealing traces of wetness off your face, even if it makes his lips feel like they’re being seared right off his face as he touches them to your soft skin.

“I wish you could see what I do when I look at you,” you admit, eyes no longer burning into the side of his face as you steady your voice again, sounding like you’re determined to prove it to him, that he’s worthy of your love and time.

“You deserve _every_ good thing in this cursed world that we live in, and I _wish_ I could give you that, but I _can’t_ ,” you say, voice cracking halfway through your sentence, and you sound truly heartbroken about it, about the fact that—that Jason deserves _more_ , and he’s not getting it.

The water droplet leaks from the tap and lands on the bottom of the tub with a faint splat. Jason doesn’t hear it because he’s too busy staring at your glossy eyes, tears threatening to spill over the delicate tips of your eyelashes and down your face.

You blink and a tear runs down your cheek, just one, leaving a faint streak on your face as you breathe in deeply through your nose, trying to pull yourself together before you speak again. “All I can give you is my love and my time, and hope that that’s enough for you.”

You look back down at his hand cradled in yours again and there’s a faint smile on your face, like you know something he doesn’t. “These hands which you think are red? The same hands which you think will only ever _ruin_ everything they touch? They’ve _never_ hurt me.”

“These hands right here?” You say, shaking his ever so slightly, but not so much that it hurts. “They hold me when I’m happy and when I’m sad, when I’m angry and when I need to feel safe.” Your eyes meet his again, bright with warmth and determination. “My _heart_ is in these hands, Jason, and you’ve never done it wrong. Ever.” Jason briefly considers arguing with you but he really doesn’t have the energy to—this bath is making him strangely sleepy.

But you must see the intent in his eyes because you shake your head and continue, just as stubborn as he is. That isn’t a bad thing, not at all. It’s why you work so well together.

“When I got into a relationship with you, I trusted you to take care of my heart, and that’s exactly what you’ve done,” you explain. “So all I’m asking is that you trust me to take care of _you_ , because I _know_ you _deserve_ it, whether you agree with me or not.”

Jason stares at you and you stare right back, your smile growing ever wider as Jason’s eyes dart away and his cheeks warm slightly. He loves you _so much_.

“I think you ought to know,” Jason starts, meeting your eyes as water trails slowly down the back of his neck, making him want to claw at his skin, to press his nails into it and drag them along the surface until it’s raw and itchy and as red as his bleeding heart. “If it weren’t for the fact that the thought of touching someone’s skin makes me want to peel the fucking flesh right off my bones, I’d be kissing the _shit_ out of you right now.”

Your wet eyes go soft again, as does your trembling smile. “I appreciate the sentiment,” you laugh, undeniably fond, and even after all this time, it makes Jason want to squirm a little. He refrains, but just barely.

You stare at each other for a little while longer until you speak up again, asking if you can wash his hair. It’s not that he needs to have his hair washed, but he enjoys the feeling of your fingers in his hair, adores the sound of your voice as you tell him a story or sing to him to replace the silence or distract him from the thoughts racing around his mind.

So naturally, he agrees, and soon enough, he’s facing the wall with you balanced on the edge of the bathtub, warning him before you scoop up a handful of clean water and pour it over his hair. You start to hum a simple song, briefly pausing to tell that you’re going to shampoo his hair before continuing.

He tenses up, trying to prepare himself for the feeling of being overstimulated when your hands land in his hair, but warmth tingles through him instead in the same way that it does whenever you touch him with no plans other than to love him, and really, Jason was a fool to expect anything else, seeing as you’ve only ever touched him with the best intentions in mind.

“I love you,” Jason murmurs quietly, and you don’t tease him by telling him you _know that_ like you sometimes do. Like Jason himself did when he finally became comfortable with the fact that he loves you and you love him too.

In fact, you don’t say anything at all, still humming that same song as you gently massage your fingers through his thick hair, paying particular attention to his white streak. It occurs to Jason that maybe you didn’t hear him.

Or maybe you just somehow _know_ like you always do that this was something he needed to say, that it was something he needed to learn for himself without finding out that _you_ knew how he felt before _he_ did, something that he needed to come to terms with so he could finally put a name to the way you make his heart try to punch out of his rib cage and right into your hands whenever you smile at him or say his name or praise him, or kiss his tears away and take him into your arms after he’s had a nightmare without a word of complaint.

“I love you,” he repeats anyway, hoping for you to understand, and you try your best, leaning in to press your mouth to the wet skin on the back of his neck, mouthing words against it that Jason can’t quite make out, but he’s pretty sure he can have a good guess. It makes him shiver again, but in a good way this time.

“I love you,” he says a third time, and now you get it. Now you hear what he’s really saying.

_I love you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for always choosing me. Thank you for helping me through this._

Your mouth curls into a smile against his skin. “I love you too, Jason,” you whisper, voice tender. And Jason hears what you’re saying too.

_I love you. Thank you for letting me._

**Author's Note:**

> for more, come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/multitudinous-writes)!!


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